


Cutting out a different path

by SecondStarOnTheLeft, theMightyPen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Ilyn Payne’s blade caught the flash of crackling lightning as he hefted it over his shoulder in preparation.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>“I have only ever honoured you, my lord!” Cersei shrieked, and Robert had to put out a hand to steady Jon he flinched so hard at the weight of her lies.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>He nodded to Payne, and the steel of the sword glowed rich, deep gold as it sliced through Cersei’s pale neck.</em><br/>(An ASOIAF/Children of the Red King fusion. Kind of. On indefinite hiatus.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutting out a different path

**Author's Note:**

> Fondly known as Mama Jon on tumblr, and hopefully more sensible than the fusion would lead you to believe. Enjoy.

Ilyn Payne’s blade caught the flash of crackling lightning as he hefted it over his shoulder in preparation.

“I have only ever honoured you, my lord!” Cersei shrieked, and Robert had to put out a hand to steady Jon he flinched so hard at the weight of her lies.

He nodded to Payne, and the steel of the sword glowed rich, deep gold as it sliced through Cersei’s pale neck.

“Now the Kingslayer,” Robert called, and the crowd before the sept stood in silent terror as thunder rolled in the skies high above. 

Jaime Lannister knelt in his golden armour, neck bare, and grinned.

“My father will see that you pay for this, Your Grace,” he said, and then a second sword flashed from steel to gold and his head rolled down the steps to join Cersei’s.

Jon did not flinch from the Kingslayer’s words.

 

* * *

 

You could not lie to an Arryn. 

Everyone knew it, although that had never stopped anyone from trying – well, Jon thought, anyone save Ned, poor lad ( _lad, and him with four lads and two girls of his own, he’s a bit beyond me calling him_ lad _)_. 

The storm outside grew more violent, the shutters rattling dangerously on the windows of the council chambers, and Jon sighed. It was always stormy here at King’s Landing, had been since the moment Robert had set foot in the Red Keep to find that Ned had cleared the throne of Lannisters for him. Jon remembered how so many had complained about the serene quiet of the Eyrie being disturbed by Robert’s turbulent presence – both his storms and his everything else – and wondered what the smallfolk of King’s Landing thought of their Storm King. Better or worse than the Dragon Kings before him?

“Robert,” Jon cautioned, rolling his eyes when the shutters slammed open against the outer walls.

“I’m fine,” Robert said gruffly, and Jon winced at the pain that shot through his head at the lie – _you cannot lie to me, Robert. To Renly, to Stannis, even to yourself, but not to me._

Robert’s brothers were standing on either side of him, framed all three by the now-open window. Renly’s cheeks were flushed, his hair clinging damply to his temples and neck with the effort of fighting Robert’s rage in the sky outside, but Stannis’ teeth were clenched just a little tighter than usual and his knuckles were white on the window frame. Otherwise, he might have been discussing meat prices. 

It discomfited some that Stannis was the most strongly endowed of the three brothers, the one with the greatest powers over their storms, but to Jon, it was a comfort. Gods forbid that _Robert_ had been born with the greatest strength – while Storm’s End lived up to its name and King’s Landing raged, the seas around Dragonstone were always tranquil and still. Stannis ground his teeth to dust ensuring it was so, and though he would never admit it Jon knew that it was in part from some desire to ensure that Shireen never had to watch _her_ parents dashed to pieces by a stormy sea.

The gale picked up outside, and a second guard toppled from the curtain wall with a scream. Stannis’ jaw clenched incrementally tighter, the wind dropped, and Jon sighed again.

“Stop being silly, Robert,” he warned. “Tywin has an inexhaustible fund to pay sellswords if he so wishes, and we cannot know how high a value he will put on the twins’ children. We _need_ to discuss-“

“Send for Ned,” Robert said. “I want Ned here with me for this.”

Jon couldn’t deny that seeing Ned again would cheer him, never mind Robert, but was it sensible to draw Ned to King’s Landing when he could be better put to use in helping the Tullys and the Tyrells hem the Lannisters into the Westerlands? It was always difficult to reason with Robert when he loosed his storms, but sending for Ned was something close to madness when Robert, a less-than-capable ruler but a gifted tactician on a battlefield, _had_ to see that Ned could be best diverted elsewhere.

“Send for Ned,” Robert said again, and there was an almighty crack of lightning directly above the Red Keep and then it began to rain, and Renly sagged with relief. The storm had broken, and it seemed to have drained Robert – Jon didn’t miss the tight grip Stannis kept on his brother’s arm, the way Robert sagged at the knees. “And my girl from the Vale, send for her, too, and Edric, bring him from Storm’s End.”

 

* * *

 

“The King will need to marry again,” Sansa said, ankles linked primly under her chair as she picked at her lemoncakes. “He will need an heir. I wonder who he shall choose as his Queen?”

“He’s probably fat and old now,” Arya said, sprawled horribly across her chair. Sansa wished that Arya would behave better, but when Mother and Father didn’t reprimand her as they should it was very hard to convince her to do so – and her being endowed as she was didn’t help, either. 

Sansa couldn’t help but be jealous, because while she was prettier and better at all the lady’s things, Arya could speak with animals and really, in the North, they hardly counted you a Stark unless you could speak with animals. They called her Arya Underfoot because she always was, speaking with mice and birds and anything that would listen, more interested in talking to animals than in doing her sewing or learning her dancing steps. 

Sansa and Robb were both like Mother, had Tully gifts, and Rickon was likely a Stark in all the ways that mattered, too, although at just seven it was hard to tell for certain quite yet, and Bran was a clairvoyant, saw the future in dreams and visions and omens, but Arya and Jon were Starks through and through. Arya and Jon heard the animals speaking. Sansa and Robb made a point of avoiding the crypts because their ancestors always bothered them if they strayed too close – not that that ever seemed to stop Uncle Brandon or Aunt Lyanna or Grandfather, of course, who all felt that their wisdom, however dubious, was eternally wanted.

Sansa rubbed her temples and fought Aunt Lya – it was always Aunt Lya when Arya was nearby, because Arya meant it was more likely Jon might appear – back out of her bedchamber, and then climbed into bed. 

“Who is it tonight?” Arya asked, frowning slightly. She was well used to Sansa’s headaches, the same ones that sometimes drove her to cry out over her needlepoint and Mother to bed in the middle of the day and Robb to his knees in the practice yard, all three clutching blindly at their heads at the pain.

“Someone old,” Sansa lied, biting back a grin at Aunt Lya’s wave of indignation. “They’ll go away soon.”

Sansa wondered if mayhaps tonight Aunt Lya was about because she and Arya were talking about the King – Mother had warded her chambers and Father’s against her ancestors, the Tully ones that had followed her from Riverrun (Grandmother Minisa, though not a Tully by blood, was a near-constant presence near Mother), and couldn’t speak with a Stark besides because they were not _her_ ancestors, so unless Robb was willing to speak to her Aunt Lya had no other hope of finding news of the man she had been supposed to marry.

Robb hadn’t been in much a mood for talking this past few weeks though, because he’d been so caught up in preparations for his wedding. Sansa couldn’t wait to have a new sister, one who might do as she was supposed rather than as she pleased.

“I bet the King _is_ fat, though,” Arya insisted. “Mother was teasing Father that he’d gotten fat-“

-another wave of indignation from Aunt Lya, _Ned is still in his prime!-_

“-and surely a king is fatter than a lord? Although they _do_ say that Lord Manderly is very fat.”

Sansa considered this – it made sense that a king should be _able_ to be fatter than a lord, but Sansa remembered Father saying something about how hard the King and his brothers had to work to restrain their endowments. Being stormlords _sounded_ fun, sounded thrilling and exciting, but from what Father had said of his time in the Eyrie with the King as boys, it was as exciting in practice as speaking with your ancestors was. The King _couldn’t_ be lazy and fat if he had to fight against something like that all the time.

Aunt Lya seemed to pick up on that, or maybe someone else was lingering outside the crypts, because Sansa’s headache throbbed so sharply that her vision blurred. 

“You should rest,” Arya said, rising from her chair and offering her hands to Sansa. “Mother always lays down when she has one of her headaches.”

This was the worst headache Sansa could ever remember having, her entire head seeming to throb with it – that in itself was scary, because usually it was just her eyes and her temples, but from nowhere, her jaw and down her neck from her ear and her nape and her teeth ached, and she could hardly see at all.

Arya disappeared and reappeared with Maester Luwin and Mother, and while Maester Luwin offered drams to ease the pain and help her sleep, Mother just frowned.

“You'll have to see them, sweetling,” she sighed, stroking Sansa's hair back from her face. “They will not let you be until they have been heard, I'm afraid.”

 

* * *

 

“You cannot lie to an Arryn, and Jon Arryn says Cersei and Jaime… That Jaime fathered the children. That they aren’t the King’s.”

Tywin looked down at the maps spread across the table before him and frowned. Kevan was right, of course, but that meant that Cersei and Jaime truly had been- 

He could scarce believe it, but yes, Kevan _was_ right. How was it that he and Joanna had given life to _three_ such creatures? Bad enough that Tyrion was as he was, but for _Jaime_ to behave as a, as a Targaryen! 

_They were_ _Lannisters,_ he thought steadily. _Worse than my father, even, but they were still Lannisters, regardless of the ruin they’ve brought to our reputation. Robert Baratheon thinks he can kill my children and escape unscathed? We shall see._

“Send for Clegane,” he said after a long quiet. “We may have need of him.”

 

* * *

 

“Renly Baratheon has a mind to make a queen of your sister,” Father said, and Garlan was pleased to see that Mother and Willas seemed as worried by that as he felt himself. He trusted the Baratheons little, always worried that their tenuous hold over their powers would falter and doom everyone near them. He’d lived entirely on his nerves while Loras had squired with Renly at Storm’s End, and even still he hated how much time Loras spent in close quarters with Baratheons, thought Loras was mad for taking a damned stormlord for a lover when any man who was so inclined would fall over himself to have the Knight of Flowers in his bed.

“It would be a strong alliance against the Lannisters,” Father pointed out when none of them reacted as he’d apparently hoped. “And just think – a Tyrell on the throne!”

“A Baratheon, Father,” Willas corrected, drumming his fingers on the table top (Garlan noted that Mother would need a fresh bowl of fruit, because the apples were withering with Willas’ patience). “Any children born to Margaery by the King will be Baratheons – stormlords.”

Father’s smile faltered a little at that, because he, just like any sane man, was wary of the Baratheons. Not wary enough to temper his ambition, of course, but wary enough to give him momentary pause.

“Margaery will be safe,” he said, waving it aside as if it were nothing, as if he were entirely untroubled. “Stannis Baratheon is the strongest of the three, and he always stays close to keep his brothers in check-”

“And _Robert_ Baratheon is the most volatile of them, and a flash storm is stronger than any other kind, even if it does only last a short time. You can't possibly consent to this, Father. It's madness to put her in that oaf's bed – kill him and Stannis both, wed her to Renly and put him on the throne. It'd be safer for us all.”

“Loras will not stand aside and watch if the King mistreats Margaery,” Garlan added, and Mother and Willas both nodded sharply in agreement. “You say you want him on the Kingsguard, Father? Put him there, wed Margaery to Renly, and stay as far from Robert Baratheon as that will allow. Robert can keep Stannis as his heir, they can win the war, and then we can kill them both and have Margaery as Queen regardless when the throne is secure against the Lannisters. Willas has the right of it, Father – Renly is the only one of them safe enough to risk wedding to Margaery.”

Garlan had once been jealous of his brothers and sister for their endowments, but now he was impossibly relieved that his being entirely normal left him free to wed Leonette. Margaery and Loras both had that whatever it was that came from the Tyrells, that had been so useful in winning Highgarden against the Florents' better claim, charm and conviction and something more that made them seem even more beautiful than they were, but Willas was lucky – or mayhaps unlucky – enough to have the rare Gardener gifts, the greenhands.

Even that was not enough to fully convince the Reach that Willas was a worthy husband for their finest daughters, of course. Everyone seemed to have taken it into their heads that Willas' accident had left him impotent, whcih angered Garlan more than it did Willas, who seemed merely resigned to his fate as a bachelor.

“There are other alliances to be worried about,” Grandmother said firmly. “The Martells, the Greyjoys – the Tullys and Starks will fall in with the Arryns and Baratheons, of course, we need not worry about that aside from considering how best to set ourselves more securely within their trust.”

 

* * *

 

“Robert wants me to come to King's Landing,” Father said, and Sansa, through the dizzying pain in her head, saw the way Robb seemed startled by that. 

 _It would make more sense to leave Ned in the North to hem in the Lannisters,_ Uncle Brandon said, folding his arms and settling against the edge of the table by Sansa's elbow. _Then again, Robert never was very sensible. Must be a stormlord thing._

Sansa felt like saying that Uncle Brandon had not precisely been renowned for his good sense, but she bit her tongue.

“In that case,” Father continued, “Robb, you will take control of our forces here in the North, and you will liase with your uncle in Riverrun.”

Robb was nodding, opening his mouth to say something before Mother cut him off.

“We have already written to Lord Manderly,” she said. “Lady Wylla will be here as soon as possible.”

 _Poor thing,_ Aunt Lya said, stroking Robb's hair with not-there fingers. _Be kind to her, it is more difficult for a woman than a man in an unwanted marriage._

“Shut up,” Robb grumbled, waving away her hand. “She's a _stranger.”_

Father frowned at Aunt Lya, and Sansa felt sorry for him that he couldn't see her.

“Your mother and I were strangers when we wed,” he said sternly. “You're more than old enough to be married, Robb, so you _will_ be married.”


End file.
